


Prodigy’s Limitations

by Aurastorm



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15637605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurastorm/pseuds/Aurastorm
Summary: Angela loses a bet and is forced to admit what she is bad at: Cooking.





	Prodigy’s Limitations

Summer was usually not a time to relax for Angela, in fact the occurrence of incidents increased. As it turned out copious amounts of time and no self-control were rampant during the season. Yet she was entitled to some time off that she typically enjoyed with the geneticist that hanged out so much in Overwatch HQ’s basement. It had been an office affair turned a little more, and as such they now spent their days off sharing their time off. 

Today? Tennis. Moira had spent so long nagging about her dislike for the tiny weightless shuttlecock, that Angela had conceded to using a tennis ball this time. A horrible decision. Unaccustomed to the weight and force needed to get the tennis ball over the net, it wasn’t long before she had lost the game without putting so much of a fight. Usually, Angela wasn’t a sore loser, but she was a quite bitter because this meant she had lost their usual bet: Loser cooks dinner.

She wouldn’t mind, not one bit, except she was the worst possible cook and she actually did enjoy Moira’s Irish dishes. Up until now she had won, and now she understood why. What was she going to cook? Something German? She wasn’t sure she could manage to properly cook steak without leaving part of it raw. All this buzzed in her head as Moira stepped off the court with that smug smirk she tended to wear, ignorant of how high the possibilities of food poisoning were tonight.

Angela would chew at her thumb and play with the blonde locks of her bangs as they cleaned up, changed and rode to her apartment (part of losing meant hosting) the whole way idly worried while Moira spoke of some genetic primer she had found that allowed for better excision of a palindromic sequence she had sequenced in the white blood cells of an average healthy human. The ride up the elevator was equally worrisome, even as Moira’s tinted hand found the small of her back. The walk to the door was quiet, filled by Moira’s occasional hum as she let Angela lead. There wasn’t the usual earnest eagerness for them to close the door; Angela was legitimately worried she was about to poison Moira accidentally. 

The door does close however, and Angela receives a few chaste kisses on the temple and the cheek while Moira undoes her coat and scarf, the worried doctor heading to the kitchen, biting her lip. Did she even have ingredients in the kitchen? She hears Moira groan as she sits down, rolling a sore shoulder and making a passing joke on her own age, but she is trying to figure out if there was anything not expired in her fridge. Why was there a cup-o-noodles in the fridge?!

For a bit Moira lounged in comfortable silence, reading from her codec while she thought Angela got dinner started, famished after a long day but not rude enough to hurry the angel along. She heard the shuffling and the closing of multiple objects, be they tupperwares or cupboard, so she figured something was getting done. 

She found one egg. A single egg. An egg and the old cup-o-noodles in the fridge. How was she going to top Moira’s cooking with these two things?! Angela buries her hands in her palms and decides to bite the bullet. Ten minutes would pass and she would be hesitantly bringing the bowl to Moira who’s curiosity had roused her to sit up properly as the plate was handed to her. 

It took no more than a miniscule glance to deem the egg undercooked and the ramen a bit out of date, recognizing the smell of the growing and thriving bacteria on it. Moira glances to Angela who had quickly scuttled away, raising an eyebrow in some form of confusion, “If you cannot cook, you could have simply invited me to eat out.”  
“I just do not have the ingredients that is all! Never expected you to manage to win—“ The smell of coffee starts to fill the apartment.  
“Angela, this egg is so undercooked, if it was older it would cluck,” She says this with a heavy tone, not so much as joke as it was a fact being stated, “I am not eating this, I do not desire death to come so swiftly.”  
“It is rude to turn away your host’s dinner and with such a mean comment!” The doctor calls from the kitchen, unaware of Moira who had entered, thrown out the entire bowl and fished into her coat that had laid slung over a chair.  
“Is pizza acceptable?”

A silence.  
“Yes please.”

Moira places her order and hangs up, retreating to the sofa she had been occupying earlier to resume reading. For a bit Angela would linger in the kitchen, leaned on the counter, face beet red and arms crossed. How rude. How impolite. How Moira.  
It was no secret. She found the geneticist imprudent and brash on a good day, although that was what she found so alluring in her. The unabashed and completely brutal honesty to her statements, the edge to her voice, the ever increasing rise to her tone when needed to make her sentence clear. The doorbell rings and she hears the Blackwatch agent receive it, graciously pay and give her thanks before the door is closed once more.

Still pouting and throwing a mild tantrum, Angela taps her foot on the tiled floor before conceding. She goes to the kitchen, finds Moira with a slice in one hand and the codec on the other, top two buttons undone and tie opened. It softens her. The strong sharp geneticist, eating pizza and just trying to enjoy the eve with the lover that had almost poisoned her out of pride, without ever jesting about Angela’s inadequate cooking. It was her way of showing love; in unspoken aways that only the perceptive understood. 

The doctor joins. She kicks off her heels, lets down her hair and untucks her blouse, laying down to rest her head on Moira’s lap, who would wordlessly feed her some of her own pizza. Eventually, she sets her reader down and uses her clean hand to pet and brush her hand through Angela’s golden locks.

Maybe losing wasn’t so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Another tumblr request I probably took too far!


End file.
